Objects of My Affection (12 page)

“The problem is, teenagers are going to do this sort of thing. It's normal. I did my fair share of partying in high school,” I told Daniel later that night while we were cooking a stir-fry for dinner—I chopped, he stirred and fried. “I used to sneak out in the middle of the night. Only my parents didn't have a clue. Sometimes I wish Ash would try harder to hide it.”

“But now that you found it, you have to do something,” he said.

“Like what? I hate to say it, but it's one tiny baggie of pot. I'm not condoning it, but I don't want to get freaked out about every little thing.”

“Tell him you were looking for something he borrowed and you stumbled across it.”

“Then what?”

He stared at me incredulously. “Then you take something away from him. Like his iPod or his computer. I'll back you up. You know I will.”

I shook my head. “He'd never go for that. He'll get stuck on how I found it.”

“He shouldn't get a choice on whether or not you punish him.”

I started chopping furiously. “Yep. Everybody's a perfect parent when they don't have kids.”

I regretted the words as soon as I said them, even before Daniel muttered, “Luce, that's not fair.” He was right—it wasn't fair. I was so lucky to have someone such as Daniel, who seemed to appreciate Ash as he was, right down to my son's sarcastic sense of humor and quirky taste in music and movies. Yet, as grateful as I was, sometimes I couldn't shake my feeling of the need to protect Ash from Daniel. Even the most ordinary dustups that might occur with two men in the same house required me to referee. Daniel would say something perfectly reasonable like “Hey, Ash, you left the light on in the garage all night,” and I'd bristle, as if Daniel were attacking me, via my son. As if what he were really saying was
Why couldn't you raise a son who knows how to flip off a light switch?
So when Ash's problems started getting bigger, and Daniel's prodding for me to handle them more direct, truth was, I didn't want to hear it.

Now I wonder if I'd listened to Daniel and cracked down on Ash, kept my eyes open to what was going on, if he'd be in college now, instead of where he is.

Or maybe Marva had a point: They're going to be what they're going to be.

I sigh. As tempting as it is to buy into that, I'm not going to let myself off the hook that easily.

Nor will I let Marva.

I toss the cigarette ashes into a trash can and then head to Marva's bedroom. Her door is open, and I hear the TV. I lean in and say, “Do you have a second? I have a quick question.”

She's sitting in a theater chair, having removed the IV, and hits mute on the remote. “I'm afraid you've caught me watching some mindless television—sometimes I can't resist. It's the only vice I have left.”

For a woman who only has one vice, she certainly does have a lot of them. “I realize I didn't get an answer earlier,” I say. “Why does the job need to be done May fifteenth?”

“I didn't answer?”

“No, you didn't.”

“Isn't that funny, I could have sworn I did.” She picks up the remote as if she's going to unmute the TV.

I'm done falling for that trick. “Then please be so kind as to tell me again. Why the fifteenth?”

Her hand drops to her lap. “If you must know, I'd like the house to be in order before my birthday.”

“Oh! That's wonderful! What a great birthday present to yourself!” Seems hard to believe she'd avoid such a simple answer. “Is the fifteenth your actual birthday?”

“A day before, but I'll need the day to prepare.”

“Prepare for what? Are you planning a party?”

“Of sorts.” Her mood darkens, and it occurs to me it's probably because she no longer has any friends to invite. Of course she's not planning a party. I've never seen her so much as talk to anyone on the phone, much less have people over. I'm struck with an image of Marva, sitting alone at a table in her otherwise empty house, blowing out a candle on a cupcake. Humming a pitiful rendition of “happy birthday to me.” Without even any clutter to keep her company.

T
urn here. No, left, left …
left.
” Heather gestures wildly to the left, in case Hank is unfamiliar with the word. I'm in the backseat of their sedan—squeezed next to Abigail's empty booster seat, spare blanket, and a pile of toys, books, and snacks. Impressive how that child manages to hog the space even when she's not around.

“Did you hear that, Hank?” I say. “Left? The opposite of right?”

“You ladies need to be nice to me. It's insulting enough I have to go to a baby shower.”

“
You're
insulted—how do you think I feel?” I say. “A couples' shower! Do you have any idea how depressing it is to not have a date for a
couples'
shower? Worse, that I
do
—and it's the two of you again?”

“You still mad I didn't bring you a corsage?” Hank says.

Heather twists so she can see me. “It's not a couples' shower. It's simply not a women-only one. There will be plenty of singles there. Besides, it's very sweet after all they went through to get pregnant that Penny's husband gets to attend.”

Penny Kramer is actually a friend of mine from where I used to work. She'd been trying for years to get pregnant—which is why I'd introduced her to Heather. It took Heather and Hank ten years to get pregnant with Abigail—several miscarriages, hormone shots, the whole deal. And that was after they'd had DJ without any effort. I knew Heather would be great at offering support, and she was. It's only mildly annoying that now Penny likes her better than she does me.

“So what did we get Penny?” I ask.

“Two blankets,” Heather says.

“I picked them out,” Hank says.

Heather gives a headshake to indicate, no, he didn't.

I pull my checkbook from my purse. “Thanks for doing the shopping …
Hank.
What do I owe you guys?”

“Don't worry about it,” Heather says.

“I'd rather handle it now, before I forget.”

“We were going to get her this anyway. It was no big deal to add your name to the card.”

“I'm not that pathetic! I can afford to pay my share for a gift!”

Heather waves me off. “I don't remember what I spent. We'll figure it out later.”

I put my checkbook away, both embarrassed and grateful. Later, when I bring it up again, Heather will make up some ridiculously low number for my “half.” It'll be nice when I get that bonus from Marva so I don't have to accept charity anymore. Not that the bonus is a guarantee. Despite our recent chat, things are going as slowly as ever at the house.

When we arrive, a sign with balloons taped to it directs us to the backyard, where heaters are set up beneath a party tent, though it's a mild day.

“By the way,” I say as I see the few dozen people already milling around, “if there are any of my old work people here, I never told them about Ash being in rehab.”

“So I shouldn't announce it when we walk in?” Hank says from behind the wrapped gift box he's carrying.

“Hold off. I'll be issuing a press release.”

Heather bustles off to hug a woman I don't recognize—I'm assuming Penny's sister, who is throwing the shower. Hank leaves to set the gift on a table. I feel that usual tinge of nervousness I get when I first arrive to a party. I glance around for an eight-months-pregnant woman or anyone else I know and, seeing neither, decide a canapé would be lovely. And a drink.

I'm pouring a chardonnay into a clear plastic cup when I hear the two Andreas say, “Lucy!
Omigosh!
It's been forever! You look fantastic!”

Actually, only one of them says it, but it might as well have been both of them at once. They're two women, both named Andrea, both secretaries, and—although they look nothing alike—no one's ever bothered differentiating between them. Someone would say, “Give this to Andrea,” and you were free to go to whichever one struck your fancy. (They weren't offended and often got confused themselves. I was once at a group lunch where one of the Andreas launched into a story about the time she'd seen John Cusack walking along Chicago's Magnificent Mile, and the other one said, “That wasn't you that happened to, it was me.”)

We air kiss in that jokey way we used to do at the office.

“Are you still at McMillan?” I say. “I'm terrible—I've barely kept in touch with anyone.” I realize that Penny is the only one, and that's because of Heather. When Daniel broke up with me, he still worked there, whereas I'd been laid off a year before. I figured loyalty would lean his way.

“Yep, still there,” Andrea says. “Although we'll see how long that lasts. They're doing more layoffs. We lost that big underwear account, and now everybody's pointing fingers. It's ugly.”

The other Andrea nods. “You got out in the nick of time.”

“Is anyone else coming today?” I believe I've pulled off nonchalance—what I want to ask is
Will Daniel be coming?

“No, we're the only work people invited,” she says, to my relief. “They already had a big to-do for her at the office. We chipped in for a double stroller. Andrea and I got invited today because we had to answer phones while they ate cake and drank punch. As if we cared. It wasn't even spiked.”

“So where are you working these days?” Andrea asks. “And are they hiring?”

I'd thought about how I was going to answer this question if it came up. “I'm doing a freelance gig, helping this insanely wealthy woman clear out her house.”

“Because of your book!” Andrea says. “I should have you help me with my closets. They're out of control.”

I don't want to say more about my job so I ask, “Where's the mom-to-be?”

“She's inside parked on the couch. Her doctor put her on total bed rest.” Andrea leans closer. “And she's big … as a house. And it ain't all belly.”

I'm not about to gossip about the weight of a woman having twins. “I gained fifty pounds when I was pregnant—and I only had the one.”

“How is your little boy?”

I take a sip of my wine. I'd hoped to avoid talking about Ash. I brought this one on myself. “Not so little anymore,” I say faux-cheerfully. “He's nineteen now.”

“How is that possible? Oh, I feel so old. Is he going to school?”

“Uh … yeah.”

“Where?”

Well, Pinocchio, you should have seen that question coming.
“Out of state. Tiny school. No one's ever heard of it.” I see Heather and Hank standing near a food table and frantically wave them over. “Look! There are my friends! I want you to meet them!”

I do brief introductions when Heather and Hank walk up. Hank doesn't skip a beat working his way through a plate piled with food to grunt a hello.

“I used to work with Andrea and Andrea when I was at McMillan,” I say.

Before shoveling another bite of potato salad into his mouth Hank says, “Does Daniel still work there?”

I would shoot him a look that kills, only Heather is already doing it for me.

Andrea asks, “Daniel Kapinski? You know him?”

Hank now looks afraid to answer, but says, “Um … yeah. Through Lucy.”

“Oh, that's right,” Andrea says, and I can see the gears clicking into place.
They dated, he dumped her, and, oh, no, now what do I say?
“He's there, although he was on that underwear account we lost. He could easily get cut.” She delivers the last bit like good news and gives me a conspiratorial grin.

Heather takes my arm. “I feel terrible—we haven't said hello to Penny yet. I'm going to steal Lucy here. Nice meeting you two.”

That does it. If … no,
when
I get my bonus, the first thing I'm going to do is buy Heather an extravagant gift, like a pair of those shoes they're always carrying on about in chick-lit novels. Manolos? “What size shoe do you wear?” I ask Heather as she, Hank, and I head into the house.

“What?”

“Never mind.” I'll look in her closet. Organize it while I'm in there.

The next half hour is spent in stress-free bliss, gathered around Penny (who, I have to admit, is shockingly large, to the point of being nearly unrecognizable). We chat about pleasant subjects for a change, such as baby names and breast pumping and dilating and placenta—nothing about me. I'm finally feeling relaxed when Penny's sister comes in to say we're about to open the gifts.

“I'm going to freshen my wine,” I say. “Anybody need anything?”

“I'll take a couple more of those chicken wings,” Hank says.

Heather shakes her head indicating not only
I don't want anything
, but also
Neither does he.
Hank deflates a bit but shrugs with the acceptance of a man who has high blood pressure and is content to let his wife police it for him.

“Pardon me … coming through,” I say as I weave among the few people in the kitchen on my way to the yard. I squeeze against a countertop past some guy putting a bag of ice in the freezer.

He shuts the freezer door and turns around.

And I find myself face-to-face—and pretty much belly-to-belly—with Daniel.

“Hey,” he says by way of greeting. “Luce, I didn't know you were going to be here.”

I wriggle away to put distance between us.

“Hello, Daniel.” I could be auditioning for a role in a Jane Austen epic my tone is so formal.

“They asked if I'd bring ice. They were running low.”

“Yes, I see that.”

He puts his hands in his pockets, which he does when he's nervous. “You look good.”

“Thank you. As do you.”

He does, too, look good. It's so not fair. Any man who's dumped you should automatically sprout horns and a paunch and go bald and—